Catalyst
by PsychGirl
Summary: Pairing: JimBlair. Summary: Someone's got plans for Jim and his senses....


**Disclaimer**: Pet Fly and Paramount owns 'em, I'm just borrowing them, and I promise I'll put them back - more or less the way I found them - when I'm done. Oh, and I'm not making any money off this, so there's no point in suing me.

**Warnings**: This story is slash (Jim/Blair). No likee, no readee. Rated for language, and implied violence and sexual situations.

Thanks to wolf13 and Marion on the Sentinel betas list for feedback, and BIG thanks to Rick and Jason for reading and offering feedback even though they don't like slash.

This is my first completed piece of fan fiction, so feedback and comments are very, very welcome. No flames, please.

Set a few months after TSbyBS.

* * *

The man in the gray suit sat behind the desk, reading. At the sound of a discreet knock, he put down the manuscript and said, "Come in." The door opened and a young man, dressed in dark, severe clothes, came in. 

"Your assistant told me that you had a job for me, Mr. Thomas," he said deferentially.

The man in the gray suit studied the young man over the tops of his eyeglasses. Mr. Thomas. A good alias for this work. Innocuous but not bland. "Yes," he replied. He took the measure of the young man again. "This will require discretion and some sacrifice on your part," he stated crisply. "Do you have any problems with that?"

The young man's face showed no change of expression. "No, sir," he replied coolly.

Thomas nodded in approval. "We need a catalyst for this project. There is a target to be acquired. Once acquired, the target will be held. No information is needed, nor will there be any negotiation. Further instructions will be forthcoming. However," Thomas fixed the young man with a piercing look, "the target must not be killed. This is of the utmost importance. If the target is killed, then the catalyst will not be effective, and all our work will have been for nothing. Do you understand?"

The young man nodded.

Thomas removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I will arrange for the return of the target. I would think three men would be enough. And, Mr. Cannon," he noted the young man's start of surprise that Thomas knew his name, "…I would recommend that they be men that you will not miss. Perhaps men who are not fitting in with your organization as well as they might. Men who have a…somewhat…malicious bent."

Cannon nodded. "I have three men in mind, sir, whom I think will be perfect for this job" he said. "Who is the target?"

Thomas turned the manuscript he had been reading and pushed it across the desk to Cannon. It read: The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg.

* * *

Detective-in-training Blair Sandburg loaded groceries into his Volvo. He was in a hurry, because it was already 6:00 and he had promised Jim he was going to cook dinner tonight. Thanks to Simon's intercession, he had been able to attend the police academy part-time and continue as Jim's partner part-time for the last few months, but that was coming to an end next week, as the academy required that cadets do ride-alongs with all of Cascade PD's divisions. So, for the next four months he was going to be very busy, and he wasn't going to see much of Jim. He had promised his roommate a quiet dinner at home, just the two of them. A date, of sorts. 

Blair smiled wryly. Of sorts. Not that he wouldn't like it to be a real date. But it was pretty clear to him that Jim Ellison wasn't the sort of guy to go on dates with…guys. Now, him – he was a wild child, growing up in all sorts of places, being exposed to all different kinds of experiences by his hippie of a mother. That was probably one of the main reasons he'd been drawn to anthropology as a field of study. And, as an anthropology student, he had come to value all of the different ways humans built intimacy and relatedness in the world. For him, attraction had less to do with gender and physical appearance and more to do with a person's heart and soul. And he had never met a heart and soul he loved as much as Jim Ellison.

Not that there wasn't a physical side to it as well. There were times when they were together that he would glance at Jim and feel his breath catch in his throat and his knees turn to water. It was always something different, small moments that were part of the larger whole: Jim's profile, the light catching those ice-blue eyes, his rare warm smile, watching his long capable hands as he worked on his truck or made dinner….thinking about those hands caressing him….

Oookayyy, Sandburg, he told himself firmly, closing the trunk of the Volvo. Nice trip to Fantasy Island. Welcome back to reality. Not happening in this life, or the next. Now get going. Tempus fugit, as it were.

He got in the car and turned the ignition. Nothing. He muttered a quick prayer, turned the key again. Dead. C'mon, please, he thought, third time's the charm….still nothing. He groaned, smacked the wheel with his hand, and got out of the car to call Jim.

"Ellison," his partner growled.

"Uh, hi, Jim…" he began.

"Car dead again, Sandburg?" But the growl had gotten warmer and held more amusement.

"Yeah….look, if it's not too much trouble…I've got stuff for dinner already…"

"No problem. Where are you?"

He told him.

"Be there in twenty."

He hung up, smiling to himself. He was going to have to endure quite a bit of teasing about this, he knew. Not that he minded. He grinned, imagining what the first words out of Jim's mouth would be when he drove up. "Sandburg, you ever think about getting a car that actually runs?" A gust of cold wind blew; he shivered and turned up the collar of his coat. He still wasn't used to having short hair. He opened the door and turned to get back into the car when a hand with a cloth descended over his nose and mouth. He inhaled sharply in alarm, and smelled the sweet heavy scent of chloroform….

* * *

"Can you get anything?" Simon asked. 

"No. The goddamned chloroform is too strong, it's clouding everything. I can't screen it out." Jim paced in a tight circle around the parking lot. Fifty yards away police investigators swarmed over Blair's car.

Jim had pulled into the parking lot to see Blair's car with its door standing open and no sign of his young partner. He had brought the truck to a screeching halt next to the car and jumped out, only to be driven to his knees by the overpowering smell of chloroform. Gagging and retching, he made it back inside the cab of the truck and called Simon. Once he had dialed his sense of smell down to close to zero, he was able to back the truck up far enough that he could get out of the car without throwing up. But even with his senses dialed down, he was unable to get within thirty yards of Blair's car.

"We're done with the preliminary examination, sir." A young Hispanic woman in a uniform had come up to Simon. Jim stopped his pacing to listen to her.

"Very good, Lieutenant Perez. What have you found so far?"

"Well, nothing in the car appears disturbed. There's a backpack on the back seat, and groceries in the trunk. The keys are still in the ignition, but the battery appears dead."

"Did you find a cell phone?" Jim asked.

"No." she said.

So Blair still had his cell phone. Jim felt a slight ray of hope. He realized that he had missed Perez's next comment. "Sorry, could you repeat that?" he asked.

"Well, I was just telling Captain Banks that it looks like someone poured chloroform over and around the car – I mean, a lot. At least two gallons."

Simon looked confused. "Why would someone have that much chloroform? And what could they have been doing with it to get it on Sandburg's car?"

"Sir, we don't think it was accidental," said Perez.

Both Jim and Simon looked at her in bewilderment.

"There's a clear splash pattern, both on the car and on the ground around it. Someone poured that chloroform out on purpose. But I can't think why. Chloroform fumes are only potent over short distances. It's unlikely that that kind of fluid dispersion pattern would have knocked someone out, either sitting in the car or standing next to it. Plus, within a few minutes of coating the car the fumes would have dissipated and the chloroform would have no effect."

No effect on a normal human, Jim thought. But on a Sentinel? The result was catastrophic. He met Simon's eyes, saw his concern reflected there.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," said Simon. "Notify me immediately if your team finds anything else – even if it seems strange or doesn't make sense." She saluted and walked off. Simon met Jim's eyes. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.

Jim's look was grim. "Someone didn't want me anywhere near that car."

* * *

A day had gone by, then another, and no sign of Blair. No word, no leads, nothing from his car, no contact, nothing at all. Jim had taken to roaming the city at night, extending his senses to try and catch Blair's scent, his voice, something, anything that would lead him to his missing partner. He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. Especially in the loft. The place seemed cold and empty without Blair there. Every creak, every sound woke him up. 

Simon had finally thrown him out of the bullpen today with orders not to return until he had slept. He had tried, but been unsuccessful, so had gone out searching again. Now he was intending to grab a quick shower, maybe some coffee, and return to the hunt. That was, until he saw that the door to the loft was ajar.

He felt a sudden surge of hope that Blair was home, but it was quickly deflated. Don't be ridiculous, he thought, he would have called me or something. He must know that I'm worried about him, that we're looking for him. He listened carefully…no sound from the loft. Blair's scent, very faint, but then most things in the loft carried Blair's scent at this point. He unholstered his weapon and crept towards the door quietly and slowly. He pushed it open with his foot, gun at the ready.

Blair's training badge sat on the coffee table, a folded piece of paper beneath it. Jim settled himself at the door and extended his senses again. Nothing. There was not a single indication that there was another living being in the loft. He pushed the door open and strode to the coffee table, took the paper, opened it. An address. Somewhere in the warehouse district.

* * *

The warehouse looked abandoned. He carefully and quietly pushed open the door, and knew that he was in the right place. Blair's scent was much stronger. He extended his hearing but heard nothing other than one heartbeat, sluggish and erratic. He took the steps swiftly and quietly, two at a time, and paused at the top of the landing. Still no sounds other than the heartbeat. The scent trail was like a neon sign now, pointing him towards Blair. Second door on the right. He tried it, but it was locked. He gathered himself, and kicked the door open. 

Blair hung from manacles on the wall opposite the door, his back to Jim. A small table in the middle of the room held a metal ring with keys. Low cots with blankets lined the walls. Jim cursed under his breath and grabbed the keys and a blanket off one of the cots. He quickly released his friend from the manacles and wrapped him in the blanket.

Blair was completely unresponsive, naked and filthy. His limbs were heavy and limp, and his head lolled back on his neck. Under the three-day growth of beard, his skin was pale and cold. He was breathing shallowly. "Chief, hey, Chief. Wake up. Come on, Sandburg." Jim chafed Blair's hands between his own, trying to wake him up, with no success. Finally he wrapped Blair up securely in the blanket and reached for his cell phone.

* * *

Jim paced around the emergency waiting room restlessly, drinking coffee. He hated this room, had spent too many hours in this room, waiting, pacing, drinking too much coffee. He hated waiting in hospitals. The lights were too bright, the sounds too loud, the smells too harsh, the coffee tasted awful. He knew, without consciously thinking about it, how many steps would take him from one wall to another, from the windows to the hallway. He looked up and saw Dr. Bradshaw, the doctor who was treating Blair, coming towards him. 

"Is he going to be okay, Doc?" he asked.

Dr. Bradshaw looked solemn. "Well, Mr. Ellison, I think your friend is out of the woods - medically at least. It was touch and go for a while there….he was seriously dehydrated – I don't think he's had much to eat or drink for at least three days. There's extensive bruising, but nothing broken, no internal injuries, which is good, because I'm not sure surgery would be a good idea, in his condition."

Jim had stopped paying attention after "out of the woods". All he wanted was to see Blair's face. "Has he woken up yet?" he asked.

Dr. Bradshaw frowned. "Well…yes…but…"

"Can I see him?"

"Well…" the doctor said, and hesitated. "I guess so. But you have to understand that he's been through a terrible ordeal…"

Jim headed for Blair's room. Blair was lying on the bed, which had been canted so that he was propped up rather than lying flat. He looked strangely small in the hospital bed. Jim realized why when he reached the side of the bed and looked at his partner. Blair's eyes were open, but they were blank, cold, and empty. There was none of his usual warmth and spark, no cheerful energetic personality, no recognition, no sign that he was even aware of what was going on around him. He was simply…gone. It was one of the most terrifying things Jim had ever seen in his life.

"…a pretty clear case of traumatic catatonia," Dr. Bradshaw was saying, having followed him into the room. "There are some medications we can try, but in most of these cases the person just eventually recovers…although sometimes there are persistent memory issues…"

"Why…why is he like this?" Jim asked, his fear a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.

Dr. Bradshaw sighed. "Mr. Ellison," he said heavily, "your friend was sexually assaulted."

Jim went cold. It was a distinct and unusual sensation, starting from the crown of his head and traveling in a wave down his body. He felt his hands clench into fists. At the same time, he felt distanced from everything around him. The doctor was talking, but Jim couldn't hear what he was saying. A murderous rage had begun to rise up from his gut. Without a word to the doctor he spun on his heel and stalked out of the hospital.

* * *

Simon walked into the emergency room, trying not to think about how familiar this place was to him. Especially where Ellison and Sandburg were concerned. He should get the Commissioner to donate money, maybe dedicate a wing of the ICU in their names or something. He looked around for Jim, but didn't see him. Odd…maybe he had gone to get coffee or something to eat. Usually it was impossible to pry him away from Sandburg's side, even for a few seconds. He stopped at the desk and asked the nurse there to page Dr. Bradshaw. After a few minutes, a young man approached him. 

"I'm Dr. Bradshaw," he said.

"Captain Simon Banks, Cascade PD. I understand you're treating one of my men, Blair Sandburg."

"Yes. Unfortunate case. Pretty severe traumatic catatonia…as I was explaining to Detective Ellison…"

Simon interrupted. "Can you tell me where Detective Ellison is?" he asked. "I can get the details from him."

Dr. Bradshaw looked confused. "Well, actually, Captain, he….left. Not too long ago. It was a little strange--I was talking to him about our plans to transfer Mr. Sandburg to the psych ward for observation, and he just turned around and walked out."

Simon's sense of alarm grew. Jim…left? Left Sandburg? In the hospital? What the hell was going on?

* * *

The Sentinel was hunting. All five senses were stretched to their limits, and he had not eaten or rested in hours. It was raining, water pouring from the sky in torrents. But it didn't matter. He didn't need rest, he didn't need food. Rain didn't stop him. Nothing could. He used his senses effortlessly at their maximum level, switching from one to the other easily. Nothing mattered except finding the people who had hurt his Guide. He had returned to the warehouse, seeking the clues to the identities of his Guide's abductors that he had ignored earlier. He had found what he needed. Now he was waiting, patiently, in the rain, for the second of the men to return. Then it would be two down, one to go.

* * *

Simon was sitting in the waiting area when he heard a commotion at the front door. A man yelled, "Hey, whaddya think you're doing? Watch where you're going, idiot!" 

Simon looked up to see Jim stalking into the emergency room. He was soaking wet, dressed in the same clothes he had been yesterday when Simon had sent him home from the bullpen. "Ellison!" Simon called. Jim didn't turn, didn't acknowledge that he had even heard Simon. "Hey, Ellison," Simon repeated. Jim ignored him and walked through the ER, heading for Blair's room. Simon got up and followed him, yelling at him. "Ellison, report, right now! Jim! What the hell is going on!"

Jim, still ignoring Simon, walked into Blair's room. Blair was still catatonic, staring straight ahead with that frightening, empty look. Jim pulled a chair over to Blair's bedside and sat down. Taking his partner's hand, he bent over and started speaking in his ear in a low, soft voice. After a few minutes, Blair shuddered and the empty stare disappeared. Jim sat back and watched his partner. Blair blinked, looking around, confused. "Jim? Where am I…is this the hospital? How did I get here?"

"You're okay, Chief," Jim said reassuringly. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he slid to the floor.

As Blair frantically pushed his emergency call button, he looked up and met Simon's eyes. "What the hell is going on?" he asked.

"Wish I knew, kid," muttered Simon.

* * *

The verdict was that Jim was suffering from exhaustion, brought on by lack of food and sleep. Despite his protests, the doctors – and Simon – insisted that he stay the night, just in case. And although Blair had come out of his catatonic state, Dr. Bradshaw still wanted him up on the psych ward for observation the following day. But the only way Jim would agree to stay in the hospital was if he stayed with Blair, so the partners were in the ER for the evening. 

Jim turned restlessly in the hospital bed. He had quickly palmed the sedative the nurse brought him and tossed it in the trash after she left. Given the number of times his Sentinel senses had reacted unpredictably – and badly – to drugs, he wasn't going to take any. He wouldn't need them anyway. He'd have no trouble sleeping, as soon as he knew that Blair was all right.

He quietly slipped out of his bed and made his way over to his partner. Blair was deeply asleep. Thankfully, he hadn't yet remembered everything that had happened and Dr. Bradshaw had wanted to keep it that way until he was up on the psych ward. So they had loaded him up with enough sedative to drop a horse. Jim rested his arms on the rails of the bed and extended his senses. Heartbeat…okay. Steady and strong. Breathing…deep and regular. Smell…once he had screened out the hospital smells, there was nothing but Blair's distinctive musky scent. He put his hand on top of Blair's head. He could feel his skin underneath the hair, warm and suffused with blood. Much better than pale and cold.

Blair cracked an eye open and looked up at him sleepily. "Jim…whassup? Y'okay?"

"Hey, Chief," he replied, smiling, "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. No problems, go back to sleep."

"…'Kay…g'nite," Blair muttered. He closed his eyes and, within a few seconds, was asleep again. He looks about ten years old when he's asleep, Jim thought. Without conscious intent on his part, his hand slid down Blair's face and curved tenderly around his cheek. His thumb stroked lightly over Blair's lips.

He sat down abruptly in the chair next to Blair's bed, aware that he was having a very…visceral…reaction to his partner and that the hospital gown was not doing very much to camouflage that fact.

"Mr. Ellison…" came the soft disapproving voice from the doorway. Jim, in a moment of panic, grabbed his pillow from his bed and pulled it onto his lap. Putting on his best poker face, he watched the nurse as she walked over to him.

"…it looks like someone didn't take his sedative tonight," the nurse finished, smiling faintly.

"Uh…no, ma'am," replied Jim. "I…uh…don't really like to take sedatives, they don't agree with me. I promise I'll go to sleep now, though." He gave her his most charming smile.

She returned the smile and walked around Blair's bed to check his IV. "I hope this young man appreciates how much you worry about him," she said. "Good night, Mr. Ellison."

"Good night, ma'am." Jim replied. As she left the room, he blew his breath out in a big sigh and closed his eyes in relief.

To be honest, that sort of thing had been happening to him for a while now around Blair. Just little things…his quick and brilliant smile; the way his brows came together in a small frown when he was studying; the way his blue eyes darkened when he got serious; when his hair was still long, watching him tie it back…that always produced in Jim an intense desire to untie it, run his fingers through it and tip Blair's face up; cover that wide, generous mouth with his own…on a few occasions Jim had had to walk away and think very hard about something else until he cooled down.

He wasn't exactly surprised by his reaction. He'd been with men before, both in the Army and when he was in Vice. But never with any kind of significant attachment – they were mostly brief, furtive encounters, more about physical needs than emotional ones. Once he'd proposed to Carolyn, he just figured that that had been a phase, but now that he was getting married, it was something he didn't need anymore. But even in their most passionate moments he'd felt as though he was following an instruction manual, or trapped in a dance that he didn't really like, but couldn't change the steps. Their sex life had cooled down pretty quickly, then the marriage went south, and at that point he figured maybe it was just better to be alone.

Then he'd met Blair, and a week in his spare room had turned into four years and counting, and he wasn't sure how he had ever managed to live without Blair in his life.

He settled into the old tug-of-war, so familiar now that it had become an argument with himself:

You, buddy, are helplessly in love with Blair Sandburg.

And I can't ever let him know that.

Why not?

He'd laugh at me.

Oh, really? Blair Sandburg would laugh at you? Would that be the same Blair Sandburg who threw away years of work towards his doctorate just to protect his friend? Who lied about himself, presented himself as a fraud, just to save your ass? He'd laugh at you?

No, you're right, Blair wouldn't ever laugh at anyone. He's too kind, too caring. But he'd freak out. He chases anything in a skirt that comes through the bullpen.

Oh, really? He'd freak out, huh? The Blair Sandburg who studied to be an anthropologist, who's witnessed mating rituals and marriage rituals and coming of age rituals in a dozen different cultures, who's eaten locusts and weird plants and who knows what all else? Who always keeps his cool in tense situations? That Blair Sandburg, huh? The one who's your Guide and Shaman? Besides, haven't you noticed...he hasn't been doing too much skirt chasing these last few years.

...he'd say sorry, not interested…

Ah. Now we get to it. Fear-based choice, buddy. You are afraid of being rejected.

What do you want me to say, damn it? Yes, you're right. I'm afraid of being rejected. Because if I tell him, and he's not interested, then it changes everything, and he's gone. And I can't imagine life without him. So I'll take whatever I can get – blessed protector, mother hen, Sentinel, roommate, partner, friend – whatever. It's better than nothing.

How long do you think you can hide this from him?

(silence)

What if you're wrong? What if he'd say yes?

(silence)

Ought to have the courage of your convictions, buddy….

Jim reflected grimly on how unfair it was that he never actually got the last word. What does it mean when you can't win an argument with yourself? Maybe I ought to check myself into the psych ward with Blair. After a quick check to make sure Blair was still doing okay, he pulled the blanket off his bed, wrapped himself up in it, and fell asleep in the chair.

* * *

Jim was hurrying through some final paperwork for the day, hoping to leave in time for visiting hours at the hospital, when Simon walked out into the bullpen. 

"Ellison. My office."

Sighing, Jim obeyed.

"What progress have you made with the investigation into Sandburg's abduction?" Simon asked.

Jim felt a sudden stab of panic. He cleared his throat. "Uh…well…Simon, I told you, everything was clean. There was nothing – and I mean nothing in the Sentinel sense as well – to go on." Which was technically true...but he couldn't tell Simon about that….

"And that doesn't worry you in the least?" Simon said. "Someone abducts Sandburg, partner and friend to a Sentinel. Someone knows enough about Sentinel senses to both completely confound you and completely eliminate any useable traces of evidence. Then someone just hands Sandburg back to you, three days later. And leaves no trace, no explanation. You don't think that's something to be concerned about?"

Jim exploded. "Of course I do, Simon! But what do you want me to do? I'm not magic, or psychic. I do need some actual leads to go on, no matter how slight they might seem to be. The chloroform – not traceable. Nothing to be found in Sandburg's car. I searched the warehouse – and found nothing." Well, he thought, not really nothing…but what was there led only to three men…who wouldn't be telling anyone anything anymore. "I examined Sandburg's badge and the note – nothing. Yes, someone left them in the loft, but I didn't get any traces there either. So you tell me what I'm supposed to do!"

Simon glared at him. "I don't know, Jim. I'm just surprised that you're taking this so calmly. I think it sounds like someone's on to you. And their intentions aren't good. Have you talked to Sandburg about this yet?"

Jim shook his head. "No, Simon, he's still in the hospital, he's dealing with some pretty rough things right now…." At a look from Simon, he put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll talk to him about it, but not until he gets home and gets back to some kind of normality again."

Simon relented. "He's doing okay?"

"Yeah. About as well as can be expected. I mean, he's a pretty resilient guy, but…" he trailed off, trying not to think about what Blair had endured during his captivity. "Actually, I think he's trying to drive everyone on the unit crazy so they'll let him out early. He doesn't deal well with being locked up." Jim grinned at Simon, who returned the smile, but with a warning glance.

"Okay, well, keep me posted. Let me know what Sandburg thinks when you tell him."

"Sure." Jim returned to his desk, but he wasn't really seeing his paperwork anymore. Instead, he was seeing a rainy night during which he had hunted down and killed three men. The strange thing was, he didn't seem to have any emotions about it at all. Even thinking about it now, all he felt was…detached. He remembered everything clearly, but it was as if he was watching something that had happened to someone else, or something that he had seen in a movie.

* * *

Thomas sat at his desk, Cannon standing in front of him. The younger man had just handed Thomas three newspaper articles, which Thomas was reading. They were not all from the same paper, or even the same day, but each described a separate homicide. Two of the men had been shot once, in the back of the head, at point blank range. Assassin style. The third man had had his neck brutally snapped. 

"Bravo, Mr. Cannon," said Thomas in a quiet voice. "It looks like the catalyst worked."

"Now what, sir?"

"Now that we have the desired reaction, it is time to start refining our project. Here are your instructions. They must be followed to the letter." He pushed a thick yellow envelope across the desk to the younger man.

"I understand, sir."

* * *

Jim entered the loft and tossed his keys into the bowl by the door. "Hey, Chief," he called out to Blair, who was sitting on the couch, watching television. 

"Hey."

"What're you watching?"

"Cops." Blair shot him a wry grin; Jim knew that Blair had heard his opinion of so-called "reality" cop shows more than once.

Jim went into the kitchen. "Hungry?"

"Yeah."

"I'll see what we've got."

Blair had been on the psych ward for four days. They had wanted to keep him a week, but after four days he was begging them to let him leave. Jim had visited him every day. He knew that Blair was getting a lot of counseling, helping him to work through the memories of what had happened during his kidnapping, but the locked doors and the lack of fresh air and sunshine had been driving him…well, crazy. Finally his doctor saw the wisdom in letting him go home…that, and Blair had promised to return twice a week for counseling as an outpatient. Then Simon had somehow finagled a week off for Blair from the academy, although he had spent the majority of that time at home studying, making up for the classes he had missed. Jim knew that Blair was glad to be home, but there still seemed to be something…missing. He didn't have the same exuberance, the same eager interest in the world. He was too quiet, for Blair. One word answers, shrugs or nods instead of words….Jim had never realized how comforting he found Blair's tendency to deliver a running commentary on everything until it was absent.

"You go back to class on Monday?" Jim called out.

"No. Ride-alongs start," replied Blair.

Jim suppressed a squelch of worry. He'd be fine…Jim couldn't be the mother hen all the time…and, just like he'd told Simon, Blair was one of the most resilient people he'd ever met. He doubted he would have dealt half as well with all the things Blair had had happen to him in his life. He pulled out two steaks and started heating up the broiler when Blair suddenly bolted into the kitchen.

"Chief, you okay?" Jim asked, mystified.

Blair was clearly not okay. He was shaking like a leaf, and his teeth were chattering. Jim realized that his heart rate was through the roof. "P..p..panic at…t…tack…TV…" Jim looked over at the TV. Just two cops manhandling a handcuffed perp into the station. He looked back at Blair.

"H…h…handcuffs…" Jim got it. Blair had been handcuffed during the kidnapping. The sight of the handcuffs on TV had triggered a panic attack. He strode over and shut the TV off; on the way back to the kitchen he pulled a blanket off the couch. He wrapped the blanket around Blair, walked him over to the couch, and sat him down. He sat behind him and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him back against his chest.

"Breathe, Chief," he said. "I'm right here." Blair drew a shaky, nervous breath, then exhaled. Another one. He put his head back against Jim's shoulder and closed his eyes. Slowly his breathing became steadier and the shaking stopped.

"Thanks," Blair said quietly. His head dropped forward.

Jim put his hands on Blair's shoulders. He could feel the muscles knotted and tense beneath his hands. He started to massage Blair's shoulders, trying to work the kinks out. Blair exhaled slowly.

"Dear. God. Does. That. Feel. Good," he groaned.

Jim grinned, and warmed to his work. He started rubbing down Blair's spine, then up and across his shoulder blades…Blair groaned wordlessly in pleasure. Then back to the long muscles at the tops of his shoulders…then up his neck and into where his hair was cut close at the nape….there was something he found sweetly vulnerable about seeing the nape of Blair's neck, hidden for so long beneath his wild mop of hair…before Jim was fully aware of what he was doing, he had leaned forward and kissed it, his breath softly tickling the hairs at the back of Blair's neck.

Blair shivered.

Jim froze. Oh, shit. What had he just done? He let go of Blair's shoulders as if he had been stung.

Blair turned, and grabbed his wrist. "Did you just do what I thought you did?" he asked, in an odd, quiet voice.

Jim was struggling with himself. Fear-based choices. Every nerve in his body was telling him to flee, play it off, make it a joke, an accident, anything. Don't risk telling him, don't risk losing him. But there also was this quiet, firm voice in his head…

Courage of your convictions, buddy.

So he gathered up all his courage, looked his roommate and partner straight in the eye, and said, "Yeah. I did."

Blair stared at him a moment, and then an incandescent smile broke over his face. Huh, Jim thought with vague surprise. He's not upset. Or freaked out.

Blair leapt at him, which Jim was not expecting, so he went over backwards, hit his head on the coffee table, and then they were both laughing, laying on the floor in a tangle of limbs, and then they were kissing, drinking each other in like men who had been too long in the desert finding water in an oasis.

Blair came up for air first, resting his forehead on Jim's. "Do you have any idea," he breathed, "how long I have wanted you to do something like that?"

Jim suddenly felt dizzy. The floor swung and tipped beneath him, sounds seemed close one minute, far the next. He sat up, pulled Blair into his lap, wrapped his arms around him, and settled Blair's head against his shoulder. "Senses going a bit haywire, here, Chief," he murmured, "need a moment." Blair twined his hands in Jim's shirt and pressed into his chest. Jim realized that he was shivering. Belatedly, his brain kicked into gear.

You know, Ellison, given everything Blair's been through lately, he might not find this experience quite as fantastic as you do.

"Hey, Chief," he said hoarsely, "is this okay? I mean, just tell me if…"

Blair's hands came up and pulled him down into what was indisputably one of the most passionate kisses he had ever received. The room tipped again, the floor spilling away from him like sand.

"Oh, man," whispered Blair, "this is so okay, I don't even have words to tell you how okay this is…been dreaming about this for years…"

The thought of Blair at a loss for words made Jim smile. He looked down at him. Oh, dear God, those eyes, Blair's fantastic blue eyes…they were alight with passion and joy…Jim felt like he was drowning in them…drawn to them like a moth to flame…

"Hey. Hey. Hey." Blair was tugging on his shirt. "No zoning. Stay with me, Jim, breathe."

"Right, okay, breathe…."

He was trembling with desire and need; he closed his eyes, rested his chin on top of Blair's head, focused on breathing. Finally the room stopped moving and he had some measure of control. He opened his eyes and looked down at Blair.

"So…your place or mine?" he asked, grinning.

"Mine's closer," said Blair.

"But mine's actually a bed, while yours is a pad on a frame," Jim pointed out.

"Okay, you win."

They left a trail of clothes as they raced each other up the stairs.

* * *

Blair woke up, disoriented. The room was dark, and unfamiliar, he was naked; was he back in the warehouse? His heart started pounding and he had trouble catching his breath. 

"Chief, you're okay, calm down," came Jim's deep voice next to him, and a warm hand settled gently on his chest.

Relief flooded Blair, and with relief, the memory of where he was and why. He grinned to himself. Last night had been a little bit like being in a hurricane, he thought. He had been in a hurricane, once, in the Yucatan. There was nothing much you could do other than hang on to something solid and give yourself up to the forces of nature. Last night the something solid had been Jim, and the forces of nature – well, Category 5, at least.

Jim nudged him with his hip and Blair obligingly rolled onto his left side. Jim pulled him close with the hand still on his chest, and fit his long body to the curve of Blair's back. Blair closed his eyes and relaxed back into sleep…except that Jim was making that really, really hard…he kept breathing on the back of Blair's neck, tickling the hairs there and reminding him of that first kiss…the hand on his chest was tracing gentle circles, lower and lower…teeth gently tugged at his earlobe….Blair felt a shiver run through him that had nothing to do with fear, and felt gooseflesh raise on his arms and legs. He wriggled, trying to get loose, but Jim's hand kept him pinned.

"You bastard," he half-laughed, half-gasped, "you're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" He felt rather than heard Jim's rumbling laugh, deep in his chest.

"Sorry, Chief," Jim said, "but it's just so damn much fun."

"All right, buddy," Blair replied, grinning, "two can play at that game." He turned to face Jim.

If it had been like a hurricane before, Blair thought, much later, this time it was like the tide. Slow, gentle, inexorable, unstoppable; the calmness of it belying the deep, powerful currents underneath.

* * *

Jim woke up, cold, and with an unfamiliar weight across him. He looked down to see Blair sprawled across his chest, sleeping soundly. Trying not to disturb him, he shifted himself until he could hook the blankets and pull them up over the two of them. Blair muttered something, a frown gathering between his brows. Jim put a hand on his back, rubbing gently; Blair sighed and the frown cleared, to be replaced with a small smile. 

Jim lay back with a deep sigh of contentment. He heard Blair's heartbeat speed up and his breathing change as he woke up; he raised his head and smiled down at his partner – his lover, now. "Hey."

Blair's smile widened. "Hey, yourself."

The phone started ringing. Jim glanced at the clock and dropped his head back on the pillow with a groan. "Shit, I overslept," he said. The clock read 9:30.

"You are _so_ not going to work today," said Blair. He jumped out of bed and padded downstairs to the phone. Jim could hear him talking to Simon.

"Oh, hi, Simon, yeah, I was just about to call you….no, he was really sick last night…bad Thai food, I think. I just got him to go to sleep….he was up all night, puking. You know it's twice as bad for him with those senses…No, I'm okay, I didn't eat the shrimp…okay, I'll let him know. Thanks…have a good weekend…"

Jim listened to Blair head, humming, into the bathroom, then pad quietly up the stairs. He bounced into the bedroom, still humming. Once in the bedroom, he launched into a running commentary for Jim on Simon, the potential perils of Thai food, and the benefits of calling in sick now and then. It made Jim realize that Blair had not been himself for a long time – well, since the abduction, certainly, but really, if he thought about it, since the press conference. That was the point at which Blair had started to lose some of his manic exuberance, his easy-going cheerfulness. It had been so subtle and slow that he hadn't really noticed it at the time, but now watching Blair amble around the room, talking at speed and waving his hands in the air, Jim realized that for the past few months, Blair had really been a pale shadow of his usual self. He grinned – it looked like his energizer bunny was back.

Blair caught the grin and stopped, self-consciously, in mid-phrase. "What's up?" he asked.

Jim shook his head, still grinning. "Nothing, Chief. Just glad to see you."

Blair looked at Jim. His hands were on his hips, head cocked to the side, a quizzical smile on his lips, but his eyes shone with love and warmth. "James Joseph Ellison," he said, "…you amaze me..."

Jim swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat, and held his hand out for Blair's. Tugging him gently back on to the bed, he said, in a voice rough with emotion, "Sandburg, get your ass over here and I'll amaze you some more…"

* * *

Jim was wakened, as he was every Sunday morning, by the gently blended cacophony of the various churches around Cascade calling the faithful to morning service. Not a bad way to be woken up, all in all, especially since he didn't have to actually be in church, but could lie there and appreciate the soft chime of bells in the early morning air. 

It had been late afternoon on Friday by the time hunger drove them out of bed and downstairs. They'd both eaten and showered, and Jim had put fresh sheets on the bed, which he and Blair had then immediately mussed up as they'd fallen back into bed together.

Saturday had been much more reasonable. Despite a ferocious attack of puppy-dog eyes from Blair, Jim had insisted on running errands – grocery store, hardware store – that meant that they actually had to dress and leave the loft. To make it up to him, Jim took Blair out for an early dinner, and then they drove up into the mountains. He found a place along the national forest boundary where they could build a fire and look out at the stars over Cascade. And do some other things, since Jim had enough foresight to throw a couple of their sleeping bags in the back of the truck. Damn, they were like a couple of horny teenagers, he thought, smiling.

He stretched, and rolled up on one side to look at Blair. Blair was on his back, sleeping soundly, one arm stretched up above his head. Jim propped his head on his hand and watched the morning light steal slowly across Blair's face, picking out all the well-loved details. The auburn glints in the curly mop of hair; dark, arched eyebrows; long dark lashes resting on his cheeks; full, soft lips. Jesus, but he was beautiful. Jim ached to rub his thumb across those lips, but he didn't want to wake Blair up. Unbidden, an image of Blair from last night rose in his head: back arched, fists clenched, skin sheened with sweat, crying out Jim's name. Yeah, he needs his sleep, Jim thought, grinning.

He tried to remember when he'd first realized that he was in love with Blair. Almost immediately, he'd been grateful for the younger man's knowledge about and help with his senses, despite his often irritable retorts to Blair's suggestions. But even in those early days, there was something more. When, only a few months into their partnership, Blair had considered going to Borneo for a year or more, Jim had felt a cold spike of fear in his belly. Even that early on, the thought of losing him was unbearable.

But he'd lied to himself, told himself it was all about learning to control his senses. Later, as the bond between them grew, he'd acknowledged it as friendship, still denying those moments when it was clear that what he was feeling was more than that.

Enter Gabe, a homeless street person that Blair had thought was an angel. The question he had asked Jim had rocked Jim to the very bottom of his soul.

"What good does it do for a man to have ears that will hear a thousand miles if he cannot listen to the whispers of his own heart?"

In the days that followed, he could not get that question out of his mind. It was finally, at that point, that he was forced to admit to himself that what he felt for Blair was much, much more than just friendship. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. He had never felt this close to another human being in his life. Not Carolyn, certainly not his father, not even his mother, what he could remember of her.

Then Alex Barnes had come into their lives, and things had spiraled out of control. As was typical with most of the times in his life that things had gotten really fucked up, he wasn't communicating with the people closest to him. He was angry that Blair hadn't told him about Alex, and Blair was angry that he had read his dissertation, and they weren't talking to each other.

Then Alex had killed Blair.

And he had brought him back.

He should have said something then. In the hospital, Blair had been so excited to hear about their shared vision, so eager to explore what it had meant. But he couldn't. Having come so close to losing him for real, he was too frightened of what might happen if he was honest with Blair about his feelings. Fear-based choice, as usual. So he played it off, made a bad joke about Blair owing him rent, when all the time he just wanted to put his arms around him and hold him and never let him go.

Things had gone from bad to worse. Following Alex to Mexico; then the mess with Blair's dissertation. Blair was trying to talk to him, but this time he wasn't listening, stewing in anger and fear.

And then Blair had done the one thing he hadn't expected him to do. He had given everything up. Jim still felt guilty about that. If he had known what Blair was planning, he wouldn't have let him do it. They should have talked, figured something out…he made up for it, somewhat, by getting Simon to offer Blair a job, but the guilt still remained.

He ruined his life for you. And you still couldn't tell him how much that meant, how much he meant to you.

Well, that's all in the past, he thought. Everything's clear now. We know where we stand, how we feel about each other. No more misunderstandings, no more miscommunication.

His reverie was interrupted by the sounds of Blair waking up. He gently placed his hand on Blair's sturdy, compact chest and was warmed by an answering smile.

"Morning?" Blair said in a raspy voice. Still not opening his eyes, he frowned and cleared his throat.

"Yup," replied Jim. "You okay?"

"Throat's kinda sore."

"Well, you were screaming a lot last night," Jim pointed out helpfully.

A wide, contented smile spread across Blair's face. "Oh, right," he said. The dark blue eyes opened and fastened on Jim's face, and the smile deepened.

"You…are a wild child." Jim said, grinning.

"I've always said so," agreed Blair. "Been awake long?"

"Long enough," Jim said, somewhat ruefully.

Blair stretched, and encountered the reason for Jim's dismay. Grinning wickedly, he pushed Jim onto his back and rose up over him. "Well, let's see what this wild child can do about that…" he said.

* * *

Jim was watching the Sunday night Jags game on TV. Blair was sometimes pretending to watch the game, and sometimes pretending to read the book open in his lap, but really he was engaging in one of his favorite activities - watching Jim. 

Jim groaned at a bad shot – the Jags were losing in the third quarter – and said "Chief, you want a beer?"

"Sure."

Blair watched him walk over to the fridge, open it, and lean in to find the beers. He had an unconscious feline grace that Blair never tired of watching. That, he thought smugly, belongs to me. Because after the last few days he had no doubt that he owned Jim Ellison, body and soul.

Well, it's only fair, he thought. He owns me, body and soul, and heart and mind as well. Jim returned, handing Blair one of the bottles; their fingers brushed slightly and it was as if a brief electrical charge ran between them. Jim gave him a look that could only be described as molten, and Blair shivered. Jesus, how does he DO that? How can he put that much heat into eyes the color of ice?

Jim settled back onto the couch and pulled Blair's sock-clad feet back onto his lap. That was another thing, Blair thought. Ever since they had become lovers, Jim couldn't keep his hands off of him. Every time they were close to one another, Jim was touching him in some way. Not that he minded. Oh, no, no, no, he didn't mind at all. But it was just kind of fascinating. Sometimes it was so subtle that he didn't think Jim was even conscious of it. Fingertips resting gently on his back when Jim looked over his shoulder as he cooked, a hand on his back or shoulder when they were at the grocery store, or, like now, Jim absently rubbing his feet as he watched the game. Sometimes it was more clearly possessive – a hand on his hip or shoulder that pulled him close. Then there were things that he did that were… much more deliberate. That thing where he rubs his thumb across my lips, Blair thought. That…drives me…wild.

His thoughts were interrupted by the realization that Jim had a firm grip on his left ankle, and was gently working his sock off. The book slid to the floor. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no…no fair, Jim…" he gasped. The bottoms of his feet were really, really ticklish, which had caused Jim no end of glee when he had discovered it. He wriggled and twisted, trying to pull his foot free, but Jim had a tight grip on his ankle. Jim gave him a wicked grin, and flexed his left hand, heading towards Blair's foot. Blair closed his eyes and screwed his face up, waiting for the inevitable explosion…but nothing happened. He opened one eye to see Jim grinning at him, hand at the ready.

"How about a little exchange? Your foot for some information?

"Don't screw with me, man," he said breathlessly.

"Promise. Tell me what I want to know and I'll give you your foot back."

"No wonder you're such a good interrogator," Blair muttered, but he relaxed. "Okay, shoot."

"So, how long have you been carrying a torch for me?"

Blair grinned. "Oh, since the day you walked into my office at Rainier." At Jim's incredulous look, he shrugged. "So I have a thing for guys who body slam me up against the wall and threaten to shake me down for drugs. So sue me."

"Seriously, Sandburg."

"I AM serious." Blair insisted. "I knew it from the day I met you…well, I guess, technically, the second day…'cause I didn't really talk to you that long at the hospital, and I was so nervous, trying to figure out how to get you to come see me at Rainier…" He slid a sideways glance at Jim. "Hey, just because it took you years to figure it out doesn't mean it did me…I've had a lot of therapy, I know my own mind pretty well."

"Were you ever planning on telling me? Or were you just going to let me go on in blissful ignorance?"

Blair felt his grin fade. "Once. There was one time I was going to tell you." He looked down at his hands, unable to meet Jim's eyes. "After Alex…um,…" he cleared his throat, blinked hard several times. "At the hospital, after you told me about your vision…the vision we shared…I thought that maybe that was a sign, a sign, that, you know, it was meant to be…and I thought I might tell you then…but you seemed so freaked out by all of that, by the vision…and then we went off to Mexico to find Alex…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "…and then I was pretty sure I had been wrong about the sign…" He glanced up to see Jim looking at him with a raw combination of sadness and guilt.

"Blair, I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why I did that…I mean…."

Blair put his hands up as if to ward off the apology. "No, it's okay…I think it was some kind of Sentinel thing, you know? Some kind of predator-dominance thing. Your DNA was telling you you had to either kill her… or do something else…" he trailed off.

"Well, I'm glad I was able to find a third option," Jim said darkly.

Blair was silent for a few minutes, lost in his memories. Then he shook his head sharply. "Anyway, after that I was terrified that if I did tell you, you'd be so shocked, you'd want me to leave, not want me to be your partner anymore. And I didn't know what I'd do if that happened. So I just told myself it had to be okay. I mean, you gave me a home, a job I enjoy, you're my best friend, closer to me than a brother…there are so many people in the world who don't even have half of that in their lives. Hell, _I _didn't have most of that before I met you. So there's this one thing I want that I can't have – so what? And I thought it was fine, I really did." He looked over at Jim, sheepishly. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

Jim was looking at him, one eyebrow raised, an ironic smile on his lips. "I'm just glad to know that I'm not the only person who makes life choices based on fear."

Blair looked at him for a few seconds, and then he snorted, which turned into a giggle, which became a laugh, and before he knew it, he was laughing hysterically, arms wrapped around his middle, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Ohhh…" he said, when the laughing fit subsided, "I deserved that…"

Jim was laughing, too, and wiping his eyes. "Yeah, you did."

"Okay, you can let go of my foot now," said Blair. Jim grinned, but replaced Blair's sock carefully and, with a little pat, released his ankle. Blair didn't move his feet, though, and noticed that Jim resumed rubbing them absentmindedly as he turned his attention back to the game. The Jags were still losing.

"Jim, what are we gonna do tomorrow?"

Jim gave him a look that clearly said, are you dense, Sandburg? "Well…you've got that paperwork to finish up before you start with Homicide, and I've got this new case to work on…"

"No, I mean about this, about us."

Jim shrugged. "People will get it, or they won't. Hopefully, if they're our friends, they'll be happy for us." At Blair's astonished look, he said, "People are going to have their opinions, Chief, and there's nothing much you can do about it."

"I just never imagined you'd be so…so okay with all this."

"Despite your years of observation, Sandburg, there're still some things you don't know about me," Jim replied, grinning.

Blair moved then, coming to rest facing Jim, straddling him on the couch. He framed Jim's face with his hands. "I know one thing, Jim Ellison," he said softly. "I know I love you."

The smile he got in return was heartbreakingly brilliant. "The same goes for me, Chief," Jim replied as he pulled Blair into a kiss.

* * *

"Congratulations, Sandy." 

Blair looked up to see Megan perched on the edge of his desk. He had spent the first few hours at work chatting animatedly with Brown and Taggart, so had only just gotten started on his paperwork. "Uh…thanks, Megan, but I'm not even close to being done with the academy yet."

Megan smiled. "I'm not talking about the academy," she said.

Blair looked at her, frowning a little. "Then what's the congrats for?"

She smiled broadly, leaned closer to Blair, and said softly, "Looks like you guys had a pretty good weekend together."

Blair felt his cheeks go hot. Resisting the impulse to slap his hands over them, he said, "Oh, jeez, is it that obvious?"

"Oh, no, Sandy," Megan said airily. "Except for the fact that you're practically glowing…and you've got more energy than a barrel of manic monkeys…" She pointed her thumb over her shoulder at Jim. "And tall, dark, and handsome over there can't take his eyes off you…"

Blair grinned, his blush deepening. "Uh….yeah….look, Megan, please don't say anything to anyone else…"

Megan leaned over and kissed him gently on the top of the head. "Don't worry, Sandy. My lips are sealed. But the congratulations are real. I think the two of you are very good for each other." She sauntered out of the bullpen, stopping to deliver a similar kiss to the top of Jim's head. Jim glared after her, then turned to look at Blair.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asked.

Blair shrugged, hoping that he looked suitably innocent and confused. He was saved from the need for further reply by Simon, who came out of his office and into the bullpen. He looked around and pointed at Jim and Blair.

"You two. My office. Now."

Jim was still grumbling to himself as he and Blair made their way towards Simon's office. What the hell was it with everyone around here today? He'd gotten more slaps on the back than when he got Officer of the Year. And then Connor, planting that kiss on his head…maybe it was some kind of weird Aussie thing. He'd have to ask Blair when they got home.

Simon regarded the two of them evenly. "Ellison, have you filled Sandburg in yet?"

"Simon…" Jim growled warningly.

"Filled me in on what?"

Simon crossed his arms across his chest and stared at Jim impassively. Jim returned the stare, and the two men engaged in a silent battle of wills.

"Filled me in on what? Hey! On what?" Blair was bouncing on the balls of his feet now, trying to get someone's attention.

Jim lost the battle. "Fine, fine," he muttered. Sighing, he turned to Blair and described the state in which they had found his car. By the time he finished, Blair's brows were drawn with worry.

"Jim, this is not good," he said. "Someone has not only figured out that you have hypersenses, but has come up with ways to make them ineffective."

"My point exactly," growled Simon. "So, I have received permission to borrow Sandburg from Homicide today. I want the two of you to go to that warehouse and search for clues…"

Jim interrupted him hotly. "Simon, no, you can't ask Blair to do that!" His protest was stopped by Blair's hand on his arm.

"No, Jim, it's okay," Blair was pale, but looked resolute. Jim checked his heartbeat quickly…slightly higher than usual, but not at panic intensity. "I…I want to help out. Maybe I'll remember something that'll turn out to be a lead." Jim caught a quick smile meant just for him. "Besides, I can't always make life choices based on fear, huh?"

Simon focused his attention on Blair. "Sandburg, let me make this perfectly clear. This is a one-time deal. Tomorrow you are back with Homicide, and not involved in this investigation. You know how I feel about including people with a personal stake in a case. But, having said that, I would appreciate your help since the Great Karnak over here" – Jim rolled his eyes – "professes to be stumped." He addressed both men. "By tomorrow I want some suggestions about directions to take this investigation."

"Right, got it," said Blair.

Jim shot Simon a black look and propelled Blair out of the office.

* * *

"Chief, you can stay in the truck if you want." 

Blair looked over at Jim. Those were literally the first words he had spoken since leaving Simon's office. Blair's initial attempts at conversation had been met with grunts. Which had been fine, because the closer they got to the warehouse, the less Blair felt like talking. But Jim's behavior puzzled him. There's something more going on here, he thought, something that Jim is not telling me, maybe not telling Simon.

They were parked in front of the warehouse. Blair took a deep breath, unlocked his seat belt. "No. I'm going in." He looked up at Jim. "Sometimes it's necessary to confront your personal demons, right?"

Jim snorted sardonically, but Blair saw that his eyes were shadowed by worry.

They slipped under the yellow police tape and entered the warehouse. Blair hesitated once inside the door. "I…I don't remember where…where I was…"

"Up the stairs, second door on the left." Jim was hovering, close to him.

Blair took a deep breath. "Okay, Blessed Protector, take a step back. I'm cool. Why don't you look for clues down here, and I'll go up there." When Jim showed no signs of leaving, Blair turned him and gently pushed him towards the center of the warehouse. "Go. I know you're right there. All I have to do is whisper."

The glance Jim shot him had a hint of a smile in it. "I think it's whistle, Chief."

"In your case, it's whisper."

Blair headed up the stairs and paused at the door. He had no memory of being brought to the warehouse – he was probably still under from the chloroform – so this part had been relatively easy. But inside this room…that, he had memories of. And they weren't very good ones.

He opened the door and walked inside the room, and felt a slight chill run down his spine. He remembered trying to sleep on one of the cots, trying to keep warm, the blanket providing little comfort. He headed over to the back of the room, and stopped short when he saw the manacles hanging on the wall. Without warning, a memory slammed into him.

The rough concrete wall scraping against his face, chest, legs. His shoulders burning from the strain of hanging by his arms. Loud, rough, laughter. Sudden, shocking pain, causing him to howl in agony.

It couldn't have been more than a few seconds, and yet Jim was there, arms wrapped tightly around him. "That's it," he growled, "we are out of here. Now."

Blair grabbed his shirt to get his attention. "No," he gasped, "just give me a minute…" Pulling himself together, he drew on the techniques his counselor had taught him. Breathe. It's just a memory. This is something that has happened, but isn't happening anymore. You're safe, you're okay – having Jim's arms around him helped a lot with that last thought. Let it flow through you…don't try to push it away…don't try to keep it around…be aware, but stay detached...

After a few more deep breaths, Blair opened his eyes, feeling calmer and more at peace. Jim was looking at him with concern. "Chief, you okay?"

Blair nodded.

"Can we go home now?"

"You didn't find anything?" Jim shook his head. "You searched the entire floor?" A nod. "Okay, let's go home," Blair sighed.

* * *

Back at the loft, Jim parked Blair on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, and even made him some tea. Blair said nothing, but watched Jim move around the loft. He had been quiet ever since they had left the warehouse. 

Jim sat on the couch, put his arms around Blair, and pulled him back against his chest. They sat quietly like that for some minutes. "Sandburg," Jim said softly in his ear, "I think you're one of the bravest people I know."

Blair blinked. "I wasn't, though," he said. "I was terrified."

"But you survived. And you went back into that warehouse, knowing what might happen. Bravery isn't not being afraid. It's doing what you need to do in spite of being afraid."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, and then Blair said quietly, "Okay. You gonna tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"Whatever it is that you're not telling me. Whatever it is that you're not telling Simon."

Jim sighed heavily. "Chief…I didn't find you that night."

Blair pulled away, turned, and looked at him, brows drawn in confusion. "But…they told me at the hospital that you were the one who brought me in…"

"I was," said Jim, "I found you at the warehouse, but only because someone told me you were there." He told Blair how he had returned to the loft to find Blair's training badge and the address of the warehouse. "Someone broke into the loft and left it for me to find," he finished.

Blair sat back on the couch, arms crossed, a frown on his face. "Could it have been someone else? I mean, not one of the people who kidnapped me?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Someone else who knows about my senses? Because there were no clues, either on your badge or in the loft. Whoever broke in here to leave that knew enough to cover their tracks from me. I find it hard to believe that we've got two parties who have that kind of information."

"Maybe someone wasn't happy with the plan," said Blair. "Maybe they abducted me to…I don't know, test out their theories about you, and someone who was involved didn't like it, and so let you know where I was."

"I don't think so," Jim shook his head. "If they had wanted to test me they would have wanted me to find you…left me just enough for me to prove that I'm a Sentinel. No, the people who took you wanted to make sure I had no way to find you."

"But why?" mused Blair. "Why go to all the trouble of making sure you couldn't find me, then tell you where I was?" He sighed. "I wish we'd thought of going back to the warehouse sooner. We might have found something."

Jim steeled himself. He had always known that he was going to have to have this conversation with Blair, but he hadn't been looking forward to it. "I did go back to the warehouse…" he trailed off. Damn, this was not going to be easy at all.

"And?…."

"I…found something there…but first I have to explain…" Explain? Explain how he left his friend and partner, the man he loved, in a hospital bed on probably the worst night of his life? To hunt down and kill three men in some weird kind of fugue state? How was he going to explain that? He didn't even understand it himself. He glanced over at Blair, who was sitting quietly, watching him. Jim exhaled heavily and scrubbed his hands over his face. Just get it out, Ellison, he told himself.

"Okay. This is what I haven't been able to tell Simon. Something very strange happened that night. They let me come in to see you, but you were in that catatonic state – I mean, that was just terrifying, Chief. It was like you'd gone away someplace and left this…this…shell behind, and I didn't know if you would ever come back. Then, when Dr. Bradshaw explained what had happened to you, I…well, I just snapped." His hands were shaking, he noticed, so he clasped them together. "I remember this feeling of coldness coming over me, and after it passed, I was…far away. I could hear Dr. Bradshaw talking, but I had no idea what he was saying. All I could think about was you, and what had been done to you….and then I just started feeling this immense rage. And all I could do, the only thing in my head, was to go find the people who had taken you and make them pay."

Blair was up and off the couch, sprinting into his room. Jim heard him opening the closet, moving boxes around, muttering to himself. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he had expected from his partner, but this wasn't it. Blair emerged holding one of his notebooks from his dissertation. "Let's see…let's see…I know I remember reading about this somewhere…was it Burton?...or maybe Wilde?..." he muttered under his breath, flipping through the pages of the notebook.

Suddenly, he gave a triumphant cry, "Got it!" Sitting on the floor, he began to read from the notebook. "It was from Burton…'In a very few cases, Sentinels have been described as entering a state of extremely heightened arousal. From the limited descriptions that exist, such states appear to have been characterized by complete detachment, intense focus on a single goal or very closely related set of goals, and almost effortless control of and ability to use all five senses at once. However, once this state was triggered, the Sentinel became essentially unable to control his behavior, and would pursue his goals until they had been met, or until he had collapsed from exhaustion'."

Jim met Blair's eyes. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, "that sounds about right." Shit. 'Unable to control his behavior'…he really did not like the sound of that. He was just starting to feel like he had some control over these damned senses, and now this.

Blair read on. "Given its rarity, the catalyst for such a state was generally some kind of catastrophic event, outside the commonplace, everyday threats against which the Sentinel guarded his village. In one undocumented case, a Sentinel entered such a state after his Guide was tortured and dismembered by a neighboring hostile tribe." He swallowed convulsively, but continued reading, "The entire tribe was reportedly exterminated. In another case, a Sentinel single-handedly killed a family of lions after they entered his village during a particularly bad drought and killed several children. As the Sentinels' behavior in these cases appears clearly motivated by anger, Burton coined the term 'hyper-rage' to describe such states."

Blair closed the notebook and looked up at Jim. "So that must be it, then," Blair said slowly. "When you found out that I was in a catatonic state, and what had happened to me, you had an episode of hyper-rage." He stood up and started pacing around the living room, talking to himself rapidly, hands waving in the air. "Man, this is amazing! We should try to do some tests or something. We could actually document a case…I'll go to the Rainer library tomorrow and check out some more sources…I think I've still got library privileges there…"

"Christ, Blair," Jim snapped, "this is NOT amazing. This is not even remotely cool." Blair stopped pacing and looked at him, concerned. "Do you know what I did in this…this…hyper-rage, or whatever?" He stared down at his hands, still clasped together. "First of all, I left you in the hospital. Left you there, without a second thought. I'd never do that if I was in my right mind. Second,"…this was the hard part…"I went back to that warehouse, used my senses to get information about the guys who had taken you. Then I found them. And killed them."

"I know. I remember." Blair said softly.

"What?"

Blair looked at him solemnly. "You told me, when you came back to the hospital. You whispered it in my ear. 'Chief, I've taken care of it. They won't hurt you anymore.' Hearing that – hearing you – that was what brought me out of the catatonia."

Jim sat back, stunned. Now that Blair said that, he could remember doing it, dimly. Pleading with Blair to come back, telling him that it was all right, that he was safe. "But…but…" he stuttered, "that didn't bother you?"

Blair's eyes met Jim's. Jim shivered involuntarily. Blair's eyes were flat, cold, and hard. "No." he said, in a voice that matched his eyes. "You don't expect me to have a lot of compassion for those…animals, do you? I mean, they weren't exactly innocent, were they?"

Jim was taken aback. It was as if there was a stranger inhabiting Blair's body. All of Blair's warmth and kindness…suddenly gone. "But…" he paused, trying to regain his balance, "I'm a cop. I'm supposed to uphold the law, not break it. I'm not some damned vigilante…or some fucking superhero in a comic book…" he trailed off.

Blair dropped to the couch to sit next to Jim. He put his hand on Jim's back and rubbed it gently. Jim was relieved to see no sign of that cold stranger. "Look, Jim, when I get those sources tomorrow, I'll find something we can do…maybe a meditation, or some relaxation exercises…to help prevent it. Anyway, it's not like you would just go in and out of hyper-rage. There has to be a specific catalyst, a trigger. Something out of the ordinary."

Jim rubbed his hands over his face. "No offense, Chief, but that doesn't actually make me feel any better. It still means I'm some kind of walking time bomb." He stared at his hands. "Chief, do you think they could have done it all on purpose? Kidnapped you, then returned you with the intent of getting me into this…this state?"

Blair considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't think so, Jim. I mean, I'm one of maybe ten people in the country who knows this much about Sentinels, and I barely remembered coming across this stuff in my research. Besides, what purpose would it serve? All it did was send you after them…not so good for them." Jim heard the ghost of a cold smile in his voice at this last.

He saw the truth in what Blair was saying. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something…something that would explain everything…

"Are you going to tell Simon…I mean, about going to the warehouse the first time?" Blair's question broke into his reverie.

"Not a chance." Jim said in a low voice. "In the first place, he'd have to suspend me and start an investigation. In the second place, he has enough trouble wrapping his mind around hyper-senses. I start talking to him about hyper-rage and catalysts and altered states of consciousness, and I don't know what he'll do. And finally, there's really nothing to tell about it. I mean, there were leads, but there aren't now."

* * *

They decided to just order a pizza for dinner, and after cleaning up, Jim told Blair he was going to bed. 

"You okay?" asked Blair.

"Yeah," Jim said listlessly, "Just tired." He curved his hand gently around the back of Blair's neck and pulled him close. "Coming up later?"

Blair wrapped his arms around Jim's waist. "Yeah. I just want to look through some more of my notebooks." Jim nodded, kissed Blair gently, and headed up the stairs. Blair watched him go, concerned. He could see that his partner was not taking the explanation for his confusing behavior at the hospital well. And he understood why. The thought of not being in control of his behavior was Jim Ellison's worst nightmare.

Blair sighed, and went back to the couch and his notebooks. After several hours of reading he had found little new information, but had compiled a list of books to get from the Rainier library tomorrow. Somewhere in there, he thought, had to be something he could do to ease Jim's mind, reassure him that he wasn't going to just go off the deep end for no apparent reason.

He moved around the loft, turning lights off, trying to move silently so as not to wake Jim. After brushing his teeth, he quietly padded upstairs. He undressed quickly, pulled on a t-shirt and boxers, and slipped into bed next to Jim. He stretched out against Jim's broad back and slipped his arm over his chest. He felt Jim's body relax.

"Sorry it's so late," Blair whispered, "I lost track of time."

Jim's hand covered his, patting it gently, but he said nothing.

"We'll figure this out, I promise."

* * *

"You have a report for me?" 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Thomas. The next phase of the project is proceeding without any problems. Once Sandburg has begun regular ride-alongs, we should have greater access to the subject. So we should have no difficulty keeping to the schedule you outlined."

"And no one suspects?"

"No. We have Ellison's loft bugged, and have taps placed on all home, office, and cell phones for Ellison, Sandburg, and Banks. The only place we haven't been successful in placing a bug is the Major Crimes bullpen. But from the conversations we've been able to monitor so far, neither Ellison nor Sandburg suspects what our next move will be.

"Excellent. You've done a very good job, Mr. Cannon." Thomas turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, dismissing the younger man. But he did not leave. Thomas looked up. "Was there something else?"

Cannon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, it's just…" Thomas looked at him, waiting. "The purpose of this project is not very clear. I think I could be more helpful to you if I understood what the eventual goal of the project was."

Thomas thought about this. He was probably right. "Your first job served as a catalyst to induce a state of hyper-rage in the subject, Ellison. Now that that has occurred, our current work is to create hypnotic and post-hypnotic suggestions in the subject that will allow us to trigger this state at will. Once we are able to do that, we will work on refining the suggestions for a specific target."

Cannon thought for several minutes, then nodded. "I think I understand. Once we have that, we will have an individual under our control with covert ops training and experience who can acquire and use a range of information from his senses far beyond that of normal men." He smiled. "Such a man would be able to carry out a variety of…unpleasant… tasks that we would rather not be associated with."

Thomas nodded in approval. He was bright, quick on the uptake. He'd go far in this organization. "Yes, Mr. Cannon. The eventual goal of this project is to weaponize a Sentinel."

**A/N**: This story will conclude in "Pavlov's Dog".


End file.
